


Beacon Lights

by Chanter



Series: These Are The Voyages [5]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies), Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: Canon Character(s) of Color, Chekov is a cool uncle, Competence, Demora inherits from both sides, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Janice Rand is a good mom, Multilingualism, Star Trek: Generations spoilers, Star Trek: The Motion Picture spoilers, Subtext, Sulu has a pilot's soul, Sulu is a great dad, Temporary Character Death, Women Being Awesome, background nonbinary character(s), men absolutely do cry, wizardly Manual functions, wizardry, wizardry leakage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 23:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17253605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chanter/pseuds/Chanter
Summary: In the wake of the Enterprise-B's shakedown run and the ribbon disaster, Ensign Demora Sulu gets a comm call.Or, a wizard needs, and the Powers answer.  Spoilers ahoy for Star Trek: Generations.





	Beacon Lights

She isn't the one who makes the call. She's a coward, and a fool, and a silly kid and terrified and she doesn't want to see the pity or the anger in their eyes and she has no idea what to say even while she wants to say everything, and she supposes, later, when she's clearer-headed, that sometimes, you can only go for so many minutes dancing on a razor's edge before someone, Someone, yanks the decision out of your hands and so she isn't. the one. who makes the call. 

Her roommate gets the comm notice from the bridge. Passes it to her, clear-eyed to Demora's red-rimmed. Bails out the hatch before she's half acknowledged and doesn't look back. Knocks, even, old-fashioned and bare-knuckled, on the portal ten minutes after the call's over, clang clang, and Demora half adores xyr for it right in that instant. 

It's not--it's not Mom. Demora half expects it to be Mom, with her history, and their history, and Mom's history with Captain--with, with--and it's not. It's not. And Dzyeduska Pavel is still here, still on the dented Enterprise-B and of course he is, between the ceremony and the debrief and his own grief, and her, gods help her, and--oh gods. It's her dad. 

Demora doesn't know whether she wants to throw up or jump for joy, or just cry. Not that she's uncertain what's appropriate. More she's uncertain what her body's telling her it feels. 

"Dad," she says, and it's about a quarter of a question, flat with curled edges and wobbling throughout. "C-captain Sulu, I--Dad? Sir, I'm--" 

"Hang on a second," he says, utterly cutting her off, and that's not the cadence she's caught from the bridge lift in a handful of scant moments over the years, not the rapped-out orders of the man climbing down the emergency access ladder on the heels of his engineering chief; it doesn't have the force of three gold and one black pips on a uniform collar behind it, no way, but it rings, and it's slower, and it chimes-- 

Like a helmsman. Like a wizard. Like like like-- 

"Dad? I mean... who should I--sir?" Who am I addressing here? What should I--tell me what to do--what should I do? This is the downside, she'll think later, of not being the one to make the call. Later. Later. Leap nine hells and ten anomalies first and bring back the dead gods damn it all--later. Later. "Dad?" 

"Demora," he says, and he's unsmiling, of course he is, now, but his eyes are kind enough that a viewscreen transmits the truth of the look in full. "Hey, kiddo." It's proof of her mental state, or the dents in it at least, that it takes a split second longer than is usual for her to catch the fact that the last two words are in Japanese. Her smile flops like a fish, but evidently he counts it as a victory; he's nodding down his link, and it's not a wooden motion. She can see that much. Go her. 

"Hang on." He's lifted one hand, palm-out and open, fingers just that little bit longer than hers - you've got Rand in you, Demora, look at you, and Sulu too - and stopped her before she's even thought of speaking again, even thought of how to phrase her desperation, even thought what to say. "I don't mean to overtake you - you know I wouldn't unless something mission-critical was happening - but I need to ask you something first. I need to ask something, and I need to do it before anything else gets through." There's a note in the undercurrents of his voice, like waterwork bobbing in San Francisco Bay, like wind sheer in hints, like incription, like the ciphers Mom taught her when she was old enough to understand what a password was, and what a secret, a really really secret was, and why sometimes you have to hide what you're doing digitally to keep the bad people out of it until you can maybe blow it--kerboom! and wreck their operation. Like spellwork in subtle places, turn your head, look over, look down, and then wow, it's amazing what the universe can do. Like how the Manual expands its directory when wizards aren't known to a person yet until they are, until the quarter credit drops and--plink! Then you know. 

"Dad? Dad--what are you--? I--" She has no idea, Powers and gods help her, no idea how to go on. Everything she thinks of ends in either a stilted question--no--or an honorific, and as right as that latter would be now, it'd only trail off in the wake of one syllable--what? 

"Have you looked at Captain Kirk's Manual listing within the last two days?" 

No one slaps her face. 

Someone may as well have done. Demora reels, motionless, in her chair. Looked at--looked at--looked at-- Gods, why? And gods, Powers, thank you for not throwing people off cliffs, that's not where her father stops. 

"Hang on, Demora, hang on," he says, fast, throttle back and all stop, so very her dad and wait just a second before we crash headlong into more trouble than we're equipped for, please friendly universe, "I don't mean that. I don't mean..." A breath in, just barely audibly. "You know, Ensign Sulu," he says, and that is, that is his Captain Sulu voice, his warm command voice, his kinder side of crew interaction voice, "that I don't go in for tormenting anyone deliberately. You know I avoid it when I get wind of it. I wouldn't ask you a question like that if I didn't--if I didn't have more reason than salt in a metaphorical wound, here. 

A worse person than her father would be leaning on the familiar elements of his personality for the wrong reasons. A worse person than her father would be aiming to manipulate his daughter through her rank, and his. A worse person than her father would be taking advantage of her emotionally compromised state - damn all the Vulcans she's been hanging around - but that's not her dad, and that's not Captain Sulu, and anyone who says she's naive for thinking he wouldn't try for an upper hand in this situation can just jump out an airlock, right now, thank you and gooooooood night! 

Incription. Wind currents in hints. Waterwork dancing on her skin, off her forcefield, off her uncle's and her mother's forcefields, in the sea off the coast of Russia. Tiny molecule chains of spellwork leaping up one sleeve and haloing even brighter as they very much do not avoid her hair. Minute course adjustments she can feel down to her toes--what--what--what? 

"I--I--Dad, I--n-n-no," she blurts, "I haven't looked--you said you had more of a reason than torture? S--sir?" She's counting on his honesty. She's counting on his character. She's punching through a plea for the core of him with those last few words, and she doesn't doubt he can hear that loud and clear, she's... she's, Powers, please let him mean it--she's-- 

Not a fool. She's not a fool. She's-- 

"Yes." He says, and again he's cut across her with purpose. "Hai. I had, and I have, more reason than torture. Torture is the last thing I intend, in fact. If anything--" why the corners of his mouth quirk just that fraction of a centimeter upward, she isn't asking, because she's a godsdamned coward, "it's what I'm aiming to avert." And now she's confused all over again, and aside from repeating herself--she keeps her mouth closed. Like eddies swirling, dizzying, in the sea off the coast of Russia. Some things are not known to you, until they are. She waits. 

"This isn't me speaking as your superior officer," he says, and now there's a look in his eyes that she's never seen before in quite that combination, part hope, part almost fragility, part loss, part the overbrightness of tears, and part - dare she say it - faintly bewilderment-touched amazement. "Or as your Senior." His voice is rock steady, gentle. "This is me speaking as your father, as a fellow wizard, and as a fellow helmsman, and suggesting something rather than ordering it. But I think--I think it'll help, if you see it. Look, you amazing kid. Look at that listing, Demora. I promise you, and may the Powers take my Art if I'm lying to you here--that I do not aim to torture you with it." 

Reel. Reel. Again again again--the oath he's just made has her brain, never mind her heart, doing Jaeger loops at twice their usual speed before she can quite process the details of what she's heard. The breath slams out of her without a whisper as nothing whatsoever slaps her cheek. He meant--he meant--he meant--. My gods. My God. Oh Powers, pleas let him have meant his oath--please-- 

Some things transcend even dread-touched terror. Not by much, but she's banking on - or maybe homing in on, considering a large portion of her inheritance - the emotions alloying the pain in her father's face now, and somehow, it's enough. She retrieves her Manual with half-numb fingers, drops it into her lap in wordless full view of the viewscreen camera, scrolls one-handed and without looking and then, only then, glances down before she can reconsider. 

Eddies. Swirls. Light-light-light when the spell takes--light light light-- 

Kirk, James T. 

And ze water is clean of ze contaminant for approximately tvelve kilometers in ewery direction, allowing for ze natural currents in and out and ze veazher matrix. Demora, look at ze anentropian rating, look zhere. Vhe hawe succeeded in vhat vhe set out to do, and vis no projected damage to ze surrounding ecosystem for ze next tventy years. 

Look at that! We got it. They're going to be okay. Everybody down here is going to be okay. 

Her father meant his promise just then, she realizes, as her head spins and spins and spins like a top on her mother's apartment kitchen floor, 360 360 360 whirl whirl whirl. He meant it. He meant it, so the Powers won't touch his Art, he meant it--! 

Kirk, James T. 

It's alright, I'm increasing power to compensate. 

She just stares and stares at that entry for what feels like it must be five minutes, but by the chronometer on the computer terminal and the timestamp in her Manual's upper corner is only ten seconds or so - "Dad?" She looks up. "What..." Her voice breaks on a rare waver, drops to nothing, reemerges only when she forces it. "Dad? What... what does this mean? It's--what--sir--I, I'm reading a pause symbol, a truncated variation on an out of ambit message, and something that looks like a marker for energy in a state of flux--Dad? What is this?" 

You are so much your parents' kid, has anybody ever told you that? 

It's incredible, and confounding, and more than a little scary, and she doesn't dare doesn't dare doesn't... holy crap, is it? Is it? 

He meant, he meant, he meant his promise just then--he meant-- 

I did not kill James Kirk. I am not the woman who killed James Kirk. I am not the woman who killed a legend with my flying. Because he's—because my father meant--because--because-- 

"The official records," her dad says, and his voice has a tight note that she's seldom heard, matched to the sheen of something in his eyes that's identical to the something in her eyes, the something that's no longer burning as it pools, "the sevarfrith ones, are at least temporarily going to say he was killed in that hull breech. Thanks to a handful of persistent nonwizards in the civilian press getting the drop on us, that's already the official story as far as most people are concerned, and it's only being allowed to stand because we, as in wizards, haven't got anything more concrete to put in its place right now without entirely breaking cover to the Fleet, the wider Federation, and several openly unfriendly parties all at once. I don't like the lie any more than I imagine you or any of us do, whether or not it's a lie of partial omission. The fact is, we don't know where, when or even what James Kirk is. All we know is that he's... somewhere. Somewhere out of ambit. Somewhere that isn't Timeheart, yet. And we don't know when that'll change. Only that it will." 

"Because--" she can barely get the first word out. The second's harder. "Because he's--?" 

"Because he's not in Timeheart, yet." Her father's voice is just barely wobbly. He blinks, hard, once, twice, three times, squeezes his eyes shut after the third attempt and leaves them closed for a long, long second. "Like Will Decker. Like--Ilia. They're alive." That's quiet, firm, almost forceful, and Demora's got enough interpersonal awareness left to know that he might not be speaking entirely to her. "You know that story, the V'ger story. It was a different scenario, a different set of circumstances, but they're--they're not dead. They're not dead," he repeats, and this time his eyes are open, and they're no longer actively welling, and they're trained on her face with intent. It looks a lot like a fierce, aching kind of bittersweet joy, to her. "None of them are dead." 

"So I didn't--" Her valiant attempt at getting more words, important words, plasma burn scalding words, elephantine words sitting on her chest out ends after three. 

"No," he says, and bless her father, truly. Bless her father's wise, shrewd, kind heart and his penchant for speaking with candor, all in one. "You did not kill him, my helmsman-daughter. You can't have killed a man who's been verified by the Powers That Be as--" he places the barest, most ringing emphasis on first one word, then a second. "--Not. dead." His words feel like a sabre thrust, if swords could heal. "You directly helped save your entire crew, two of your uncles, and forty-seven people who would otherwise have died or been lost today, but you did not kill Captain Kirk. Or any of the others, for that matter," he adds, and how he knows what second collective spectre's been tormenting her for a full day--but then again, he's been there himself more times than she can list, large and small and from two different perspectives, no less, and with instincts like those, some detached corner of her notes in amazed realization, it's no wonder he's as good at the kinder side of crew interactions as Mom always says he is. But how he knew--how in nine hells--she blinks. Neither of them comment on what splashes onto her collar. 

"... Thank you so much, Dad. Thank you so much." She sounds young, to her ears. She gives no damns at all. 

"You're--" Captain Hikaru Sulu of the USS Excelsior does not sniffle on comms. He waits until the connection's been broken to blow his nose, domo arigato. But he'll shed tears down an open line and no mistake. Oh yes he will. "—welcome. I love you so much, kiddo. I want you to call me tomorrow. And your mother. She's--she's going to be at Eutopia Planetia to meet you, once you come in for the maintenance your uncle Scotty and the on-site engineers can't handle without a spacedock, and the rest of the crew's embarkation. She's running around getting gear together--she'll be there, and call me, kiddo? I don't care what time of night or day it is here." That's a concession not made for trivialities. Demora knows it, lets it daze her like starlight in close view, lets it pass her by. 

"I'll call you, Dad. I love you so much. ... Thank you. Thank you, for--for knowing." For knowing me. For knowing us. For knowing Sulus, and Rands, and for not letting me torture myself without reason. There's something not quite standard there, something that may be an organic/pilot thing, an organic/crew thing, not just an organic thing or even an organic/wizard thing, the way Excelsior would say it, but Demora's head's suddenly too full of exhausted cotton to consider it in broad strokes, never mind detail. "I'll call you tomorrow. I love you, and Mom. ... Sulu out." 

Her head, her heart, spins light as a top in zero-G. She falls back on her bunk with the usual creak, barely remembers getting there, flings her boots to the floor and careers with the disorienting relief/haze/amazement/confusion of it all, light light light, because she, because she, because she--because--because-- 

Not a murderer. Not a murderer. Not not not. 

I. will. aid. growth. and. guard. life. 

Her roommate doesn't comment on her tears, lets her fall asleep without a word, doesn't ask for detailed information later. Demora's a little adoring of xem, quick, slow, reel reel real. Demora loves xem for xyr kindness.

**Author's Note:**

> Did anybody else find out about novel quasi-canon (not read, just find out about) and say to heck with that, Sulu is a great and so very not absent dad? I did. This is part of the result, or rather some of the fruition of the result. The rest comes from Demora being amazing in certain scenes of Generations...! They all (including the off-screen notables) deserve better than canon, and quasi-canon, gave them. And so they get.


End file.
